I didn’t watch the X-Files the first time around and intend to maintain that record.
My local rag reports that Norfolk’s “Virginia Zoo” has not been a good place for wallabies to be.
(If you wonder why I have a print subscription to my local rag, this story illustrates why. We need local newspapers, and local newspapers need our support. Plus, my local rag is a good local rag. It’s not perfect, but it’s still my local rag.)
I have not visited Norfolk’s “Virginia Zoo.” The older I get, the less I am fascinated by animals in cages.
Whoever came up with the idea for those little change pockets on the inside of the front pockets of men’s trousers, which serve only to make change inaccessible to the wearer, deserves swift and merciless retribution.
. . . and there is no good time for a washing machine to overflow.
Yesterday was interesting.
When I was a young ‘un, back in the olden days, the typical house had few clocks. There was the kitchen clock, the living room mantle clock, and a bedroom alarm clock or two. Grown-ups usually had watches.
I counted the clocks in the kitchen last night. There is one on the wall, one on the stove, one on the coffee-maker, and one on the microwave; if we had a mixmaster, I’m sure that, these days, there would be one on the damn mixmaster. I’m mildly surprised there’s not one on the slotted spoon.
In the living room, there is one on the cable box and one on the weather gadget. This does not include the clocks on the three computers (his and hers personal laptops and my friend’s work laptop for the VPN to her office computer).
I no longer wear a watch, as there is a clock on the cellphone in my pocket (I sometimes carry the pocketwatch my mother gave me for high school graduation when I want to be
pretentious formal, but that’s another thing).
Once not all that long ago, when I was on a gig to design some training materials, several of us were looking to schedule a demonstration so I could collect some information. When we went to set a time for the demo, all three of us pulled cellphones from our pockets to check the time. Not one of us wore a watch.
Time is no longer a river. It’s a flood.
We have too damn many clocks.
Still under 300k.
The four-week average of claims, a less-volatile measure than the weekly figure, declined to 290,500 from 290,750 the week before.
The number of people continuing to receive jobless benefits climbed by 101,000 to 2.45 million in the week ended Dec. 27. The unemployment rate among people eligible for benefits held at 1.8 percent. These data are reported with a one-week lag.
In other news, Bloomberg’s experts were on target. I think I’ll run out and buy that lottery ticket . . . .
Rockers (as opposed to “rock-n-rollers”) should not try to do Christmas songs. Too much back-beat.
Based on what I saw at Toys R Us, board games are going the way of T. Rex.
Will the time come when industrial designers realize that users would like control buttons and knobs that can be read without a flashlight? Eight-point light grey letters on black doesn’t cut it.
Also, get off my lawn.
In the Charlie Brown comic in today’s local rag, Snoopy is trying to get into the Winter Olympics in Grenoble. They took place in 1968.
Please make it stop.
Don’t go shopping.
Of all the mindless fads–pet rocks, chia pets, low-profile tires–the one that most beggars the imagination is the sudden fascination with kale.
Anyone want to start a pool on when Republicans will attempt to impeach President Obama for the high crime and misdemeanor of being Not White*?
Roy Edroso anticipates the random words.
*Regardless of whatever random words they use, that is at what they take offense.
Really, what’s the point*? The races are finished, done, over with. All we are waiting for is the accounting.
I’ll read about the returns in tomorrow’s local rag. The results likely won’t change much from now to then.
*Maybe beer is the point. I don’t drink beer.
Any Scotch is better than every anything else.
If the ads for adult diapers flooding my telly vision are any indication, America is is drowning in an epidemic of incontinence.
It must be a real pis–oh, never mind.
All seriousness aside, assuming that Republican diaper fetishists have not taken over my telly vision, those ads are a clear attempt to create a market where none exists.
The new make-up that the cosmetic companies are pushing is even worse and an even more transparent attempt to create a market where none exists. Give me a diaper over blood-red vampire lipstick any day of the week and twice on Sundays.